A Waiting Game
by this-now
Summary: I am weakening. I am weaker. I am weak. PeterXOC
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything associated with Narnia. {Applies to all chapters.}**

**Note; This first chapter is really short, but the rest will be a lot longer.**

_The entire length of the beach is desolate. Neither a soul, nor a creature crosses paths with the ocean today. An abrupt crack of lightning cuts through the dark clouds, then thunder rumbles through the thick air. Rain starts to pour from the grey sky. My deep blue dress sways in the increasing gales and eventually stills from getting so wet from the rain. My hair flies behind me. I stop walking, starring into the black, deathly cold water. It curls and crashes against the rocks. Further out, waves leap from the deep depths of the once beautiful sea. It looks so dangerous, so deadly. I take a step forward and the tide almost reaches my toes. I am numb. I cannot move. I cannot bring myself to move. I try. I falter. _

_I am weakening. _

_I am weaker._

_I am weak._

I am jolted by the sound of screaming sirens. The horrid sound pierces my ear drums. I waste no time. Jumping out of bed, I scramble dizzily to the door and pull it open. I almost fall down with the shudders. I go even faster. Roars of hundreds of engines fly over the house. _Oh no._

I run.

I jump the fence.

I run.

I follow the light.

I run.

Just then bombs come down.

I just manage to fall inside.

Everything that follows happens within seconds.

Though I cannot see their faces, I know everyone's there. Mrs Pevensie. Susan and Lucy. Edmund. Peter. Not everyone then. Everything spins. My head, eyes, legs, arms, ears; everything burns. I see them mouth words. I do not hear those words. _Have I gone deaf?_

"Mother?" I cannot hear myself speak. "Mother?" I repeat. Still I cannot hear a thing. I formulate that she is still inside the house. I have to go and get her. I scramble backwards. They try and pull me back in. I get away.

I run.

I stagger.

I run.

I climb the fence steadily.

I fall off the fence sloppily.

It takes a second but I get back on my feet.

Running still, I do not falter, though the dizziness gets worse. I run in the already open door, falling onto my knees.

It takes a second but I get back on my feet.

"Mother!?" I yell but hear it as silence. "Mother!?" I try again. Nothingness. _What if she is hurt?_ I slowly edge myself towards the kitchen down the hallway. The stairs are to my left. The door to the living room is on my right. Keeping myself orientated is needed what with the spinning and all.

The kitchen is vacant.

Every room I check downstairs is vacant.

_Mother?_

She was supposed to be in that shelter. She always told me to go and she would be right behind me. She wasn't this time around.

_Mother?_

I climb halfway up the staircase when another bomb goes off. It sends me tumbling down.

_Mother._

_I am weakening. _

_I am weaker._

_I am weak._

_And I am sorry for that._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything associated with Narnia. {Applies to all chapters.}**

**Note; Reviews would be appreciated greatly**

My mum is fine. After all that fuss and she was a few doors down at the Walters picking up a few books she had lent Mr Walter. As for myself, I don't exactly remember what happened once I fell down those stairs. Peter tells me he helped me back to the shelter afterwards. It just seems like a blur now.

And I didn't go deaf. I don't know what happened. Didn't bother to tell anyone either as it is perfectly normal now. _Perfectly normal. Yeah right, Riley._

Now I have brushed off the night's events as though they were a distant memory. It's all a bit strange- the way we live. We live, and we move on. Or should I say that we try to forget. Something tells me that when I'm older, if this war ends, I still won't be able to move on. I still won't be able to forget.

Anyway, I'm being evacuated. Luckily it's with the Pevensies as their mother has a friend who has an uncle with a large house. He offered to have me too, which I couldn't be happier about. It's fortunate that my mother is a good friend with Mrs Pevensie. If I had ended up on my own, I don't know what I would do with myself. How boring. They've been friends for a long while, Helen Pevensie and my mother. I've heard they knew each other in primary school, though the truth changes to rumours a lot in small towns like Finchley. I never know what to believe. There is definitely one too many gossipers. We even share bomb shelters as my father didn't have much time to build us one before he enlisted.

Right now, I sit on the bench in our garden. I never lift my eyes from the book in my hand. Not when people walk by with screeching children, or when dogs bark through the fence at me. And definitely not when I hear cries across the street when policemen arrive at doors of the fallen. It's routine. Every time there are bombs, the morning after, the police go to people's doors; either telling them of a death. Sometimes when there hasn't been a raid for a while, they still go to doors. It's about the soldiers. I just hope a policeman never comes to my door. Or the Pevensie's door. Or the Walter's door. Or Mrs Smith's. Anyone's. It's too barbaric. Too life-altering.

Dad went to war 2 years ago, when it all started. He hasn't been home since.

Mr Pevensie registered around 5 months ago. He hasn't been home since.

I've heard stories; they don't come home. They don't come back. At least not a lot of them. I like to think that we aren't losing, but we certainly aren't winning either.

"How different it all was from what you'd planned." I read from the pages of 'The Love of the Last Tycoon' by F. Scott Fitzgerald. A talented writer in this day and age. The quote itself tore my eyes from the book for the first time in a few hours.

_My life; it really is different from what I had planned. It is different from how I imagined it._

Growing up, I thought the tales of WWI were fiction. I didn't know war was truly real. And now, war is before my eyes. It's not in front of me, but it is still there. Hissing in the background about how it can defeat, claim, manipulate and kill so many people just for some land. For greed. For power.

It is stupid.

If a 15 year old girl can realise that then the world must be pretty messed up.

"Boo!" the book goes flying across the lawn as I jump to my feet. I turn to see Peter standing with a mischievous grin. He jumps the fence, onto the bench, then onto the grass.

"Peter! That is my favourite book!" I walk over and brush off the grime.

"It's still your favourite book whether it's in your hands or not," he states matter of factly.

"Yes, but now it's covered in dirt."

"Yes, and it gets more attention than me," he winks. Rolling my eyes, I turn in my step and begin walking away with my book under my arm.

"See! Told you!" he chuckles. Suddenly his tone turns serious, "I mean it though, Riley." I pause in my step. "I feel like I haven't talked to you in forever." He sounds sad. I stay silent. "Two years, Riley. Two years. I know you miss your dad but-"

My body snaps around to face him.

"What would _you _know? Your dad was here last Christmas. And the Christmas before that!" I retort too quickly to regret it. His face turns sour.

"Well he's gone now, Riley, and that's all that should matter." He bites back.

"Oh, well I suppose you feel the same as me then!?" I shout.

"What is that meant to mean?" his voice lowers, eyes glaring.

"I'm sure you can figure it out, Peter." My tone is bitter and I almost feel bad. His expression stays stony. I turn around annoyed and walk away again. All I hear from behind me is a frustrated sigh.

"Always the charming one, aren't you!?"

I sigh and storm away faster. _Indeed, Peter Pevensie. Indeed._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything associated with Narnia. {Applies to all chapters.}**

**Note; enjoy and review**

"_Always the charming one" _I snort, starting to chop the vegetables vigorously. I have never disliked him for anything. Not ever. I've always thought us to be good enough friends for that to ever happen. I suppose I haven't been a very good friend since my dad went to war. It's just that I don't have any siblings like Peter does to keep me company. I've been living as an only child with a depressed mother, scared to death that my dad will not come home for _two _years. My life isn't exactly extraordinary. Picking up the wooden board, I walk over to the pot on the stove and slide the pieces into the boiling water with the chopping knife. _This is as extraordinary as it gets. _

Three knocks sound from the door. Sighing, I put down the board and knife. Walking quickly toward the door I wipe my hands on the white apron covering my dress. I push down the handle and pull.

_Peter._

"Umm…" I say awkwardly unable to find any words to say.

"Take a walk with me?" he says asks quickly.

"I'd rather not," I say beginning to shut the door but he puts a hand on it. "Peter," I warn getting rather annoyed.

"Can't we just talk?" he says.

"I can't. I'm making dinner." I am not in the mood for apologies. Neither am I in the mood to _talk._

"Perfect," he says and invites himself in walking straight by me. I'm too shocked to object. After closing the door, I follow him into the kitchen. He has already picked up the knife and has begun chopping an onion.

"Smells good," he comments.

"Peter…"

"Is it soup? Casserole?" he adds.

"Pete-"

"Susan tried making a broth a few days ago."

"Peter."

"Let's just say she's not made for the kitchen."

"Peter!?" I snap.

"Yes?" he says too casually.

"What are you doing?" _What is he doing?_

"I'm making soup. What are you doing?"

"I'm serious." _I am serious._

"Me too, Ri." He looks up, gives me a smile, then looks back down and concentrates on the second onion. I don't even try to hide the confusion that's written on my face.

"Am I missing something?" _I think I must be._

"I don't think so," he shrugged. He picks up the board and slides the cuttings into the pot. He goes to pick up the last vegetable (a carrot) off the counter but I swiftly grab it and hold it out of his reach.

"Why are you acting like nothing happened, Peter?" I ask. Heaving a sigh, he leans against the counter. He waits. He doesn't speak,

"Because we haven't argued like that in a long time. I certainly didn't expect you at my door this morning." He keeps waiting. He keeps his eyes locked on mine. He looks unsure.

_I almost feel bad._

I walk over and start chopping as I speak. I feel his eyes on me. "I know I've not been a very good friend for a while, okay? Do you not think I feel bad about that? I _should_ feel bad about it" My gaze is glued to the vegetable I chop. "I don't need people telling me that." I glance at him quickly. He opens his lips apprehensively as if to say something he's not sure of. I hastily cut him off. "I also don't need you avoiding the subject. I'm conflicted enough as it is."

"I'm not _avoiding _the subject," he states.

"You are." I walk past him and to the stove sliding the rest of the carrot into the soup. _Almost perfect. _

"It's in the past."

"It was yesterday," I correct him.

"Exactly. It's in the past. I'm not-"

"Look, Peter-"

"No, Riley. Listen to yourself. You're pushing me away. You have done for _two _years."

"You're right. I push everyone away, don't I?" I murmur under my breath just loud enough for him to hear. Brushing by him, I crouch down and open a cupboard door, reaching in for salt and pepper. I nearly slam the door shut, but stop myself before I do.

"Ri-"

"No, it's okay, Peter. It's okay. It's okay because that's what I do, isn't it? I _push _people away until I have no body left. It's just what I do." Once the salt and pepper go into the soup, I put them back in the cupboard and stand with my back to him. "That's why my mum doesn't talk to me as much. She doesn't even say goodnight to me anymore. It's why I haven't been talking to you. Or anyone. I've pushed every person in my life away. It's _me._" I'm getting angry. I start to become furious. I'm furious that I've done this to myself.

_It's entirely my fault._

Peter stays still as my voice rises. I whip around. "It is me, isn't it? Yesterday was my fault! These two years were my fault!"

"Calm down, Riley." I hear him say.

"Ah! I'm so stupid not to realise it! How could I not have known!? I was too busy blaming it on everything else when the real bloody problem was me! That's why my mum's depressed, right? She's depressed because of me. Did you know that my dad could have gone to war a year later? He chose to go when he did! He chose to leave! A few days before he left, we had a stupid argument! Me, my mother, and my father. My dad had an affair. And so did my mother! But they both _forgave _each other! I was so ashamed of them. My parents; acting like school children, calling it even! I still love them, but they can be so stupid sometimes. I still want him to come back, but I still hate him for what he did! I hate my mother for what she did too!" I'm starting to sound like a maniac. I can't stop yelling. He's just standing there, listening. _How can he just stand there?_

"It was my fault he left early! It's my fault I don't have a mother anymore! It's my fault that we aren't as good friends as we once were! It's my fault-"

Knocking comes from the door. Strong, loud, harsh knocks. I stop yelling immediately. It can't be my mum. She was in town until later on tonight. And she wouldn't knock even if it was her. Not like that at least. I run to the door and open it.

_It's a policeman._


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything associated with Narnia. {Applies to all chapters.}**

**Note; enjoy and review **

I close the door over slowly and lean against it once it is shut. I slide down it until I sit on the floor. I pull my legs in close to my body. "Riley?" I hear Peter call. Seconds later he appears at the door frame leading to the kitchen. I look away quickly and rest my head on my knees. "Ri?" he asks warily and quietly. I don't answer. I don't want to speak. I hear his footsteps coming towards me. I jump at his touch. He puts two fingers under my chin and tugs it up gently so I look at him. I don't want to look at him. I don't want to look at _it. _I lift it slowly and his eyes fall to it and his jaw locks. His face drops as mine had.

He kneels down in front of me. "I'm sorry for shouting." I'm ashamed of myself. I never knew I could even be that angry. I've never been that angry in my entire life. Not even when I was told both my parents had affairs. "I'm so selfish," I whisper, silently cursing myself for my idiotic behaviour only moments before.

"You're not selfish." He sounds so sure. But he is wrong. _I am. _What would my _father_ say? I'm sure he would be disappointed. He was disappointed with me anyway before he left. And now this stupid letter could tell me he is missing or worse. The policeman looked apologetic. That's never a good sign. And it wasn't a postman delivering a letter. That's never a good sign either. He's probably dead and here I was saying that I hated him! _That is selfish!_

"Will you read it?" I ask, completely defeated. He nods slowly, taking the envelope from my hands. He tears it open and forces _it_ out. He unfolds the paper and starts reading.

"It says-" he starts but I cut him off.

"N-No. Don't read it out." I stutter. As much as I want to know, I'd rather not know at all. _I'd rather not know at all. _He simply nods understandingly and focuses on the inked page with a cross in his brow. I close my eyes and turn my head. I don't want to see his reaction. Then I'll _know. _

"Riley…"

"It's bad isn't it? It's really bad. I can tell. Don't tell me-"

"Your dad is coming home."

000000000000000000000000000

After I shared the news with my mother she started telling everyone she could. She even invited the Pevensie's over for tea. We haven't all had dinner together in a long time. It must have been three or four hours ago now when the letter came. It's all I can think about. For two years I have been sad. Now, I couldn't be happier. Evacuation day is approaching soon, and I just hope with all my heart that he returns before then.

"This tastes wonderful Caroline," Mrs Pevensie comments while taking another spoonful of the broth.

"Oh no, it was all Riley tonight," my mother smiles brightly.

"And Peter," I add speedily, looking at him from the other end of the table.

Edmund snorts. "Peter? Making soup? I don't believe you for a second," he exclaims. "It's too good to be something _Peter_ made!" Smirking, he keeps shovelling in the liquid.

"Believe what you like," I say slowly, smirking a little too.

"It's lovely," Lucy chirps. I've always liked Lucy for that. She has sweetness to her voice. It's so full of innocence. I smile at her.

"It definitely is delightful," Susan compliments.

"I'd like to make a toast," my mother addresses. Everyone puts down their spoon and picks up their glass. "To George Dawson, my beautiful and wonderful husband, who is finally… coming home." I'm sure I see her tear up, but she hides it quickly.

"To George," everyone says in unison. I mutter "to dad" under my breath. Everyone divulges into their soups again, passing short conversations here and there.

"I'll start clearing up," I announce softly once everyone's finished. Picking up my bowl, then Lucy's next to me, then I lean over and get Mrs Pevensie's, placing them within one another.

"I'll help," Peter offers.

"It's alright, I can do it," I insist but he gets up anyway and tucks his chair in, getting the bowls from his side of the table. We both walk side by side until we reach the door frame. He steps back and gestures for me to go first. I give him a quick smile as I walk past him and into the kitchen, putting the china into the sink. As I turn the hot tap on, he places the bowls in his hands down into the sink as well.

"I'll wash, you dry?" he suggests. I nod. Funnily enough, he still remembers where everything is. He opens a drawer to the left of the sink and pulls from it a washcloth for himself and a small towel for me. I take it gratefully.

"Thank you," I grin as he begins washing. He looks up to me a few times.

"Is that a smile, I see?" he teases. "I haven't seen you wearing one of those in a long time," he says.

"Well the occasion seems fit," I reply.

"It certainly is," he laughs but it dies down quickly. _He's upset._

"Peter?"

"Yes?" his eyes catch mine. _Yes, he is undeniably upset. It shows in his eyes._

"You're upset." I don't ask if he is, I just know.

"I'm fine_," _he speaks so gently I barely hear it.

"You are not _fine._"

He doesn't reply for a long while. He washes, hands it to me, I dry it, then put it away. He washes, hands it to me, I dry it, then put it away. "I guess I just wish my Dad was coming home too."

_Now I feel bad. Now I feel really, really bad._

"Oh," is all I come up with. _Oh? _Now I feel bad and stupid. "I'm sorry I should have realised-"

"Don't be sorry." _I am sorry._

"But I am. I didn't think about that. I didn't mean to-"

"Honestly, it's fine." And the conversation ends there. He doesn't have anything else to say. I don't know what else to say. Silence surrounds us again. I watch Peter sink further and further into himself. _He is very upset._

Silence.

_Silence._

**Silence.**

Just as I put away the last bowl, my mum calls through to us. "Bring some dessert through, will you dear?" I wait a minute before breaking the quiet in the kitchen. I can tell when I speak that he tenses.

"Okay."

I walk back through with half a sponge cake which was in the refrigerator and put it on the table. I let mother cut the slices while I sit back down. Peter enters then, with a smile on his face like he was never sad. _How can he do that?_

"I'll do that, Mrs Dawson," he says walking over and taking the knife from my mother.

"Ah, Peter. Thank you. You're quite the gentleman," she laughs. He grins. And it looks genuine.

"Riley, would you-" He is cut off by the telephone ringing. I jump up from my seat a little too eagerly and leave to room. I pick the phone up and put it to my ear.

"Hello, Dawson residence?" I say. It's the way I've always answered the telephone. My dad taught me what to say.

"Caroline? Is that you?" a pained voice speaks. I don't recognise it.

"No, this is Riley speaking, Sir. Who is this, may I ask?"

"E-Eugene Fl-Fleming. Is yo-your m-mother home, Riley?" He stutters.

"Yes, Sir. Would you like me to call for her?" I try and sound as positive as I can but this man sounds very scared. Or worried. I can't really tell.

"Yes!" he almost shouts. "I mean…yes…yes please," he composes himself.

"Okay, give me a second Mr Fleming." He murmurs a few things down the phone. I take it away from my ear. _I wonder who it could be and what they want with my mother._ I make sure and cover the mouthpiece when I yell through to my mum. "Mother? Do you know a Eugene Fleming!?"

"No, I don't believe I do. Is it for me!?" she sounds panicked.

"N-no. It's not." _I lie. _I take it back to my ear. "She can't speak right now. Could I take a message?"

"Umm…no…that'll be all. Goodnight." I hear a low tone echoing through the phone. I turn round and am startled at my mother's presence. I jump sideward.

"What was that about?" she warns.

"Nothing." _I lie again._


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything associated with Narnia. {Applies to all chapters.}**

**Note; enjoy! (I promise the evacuation is happening in the next few chapters)**

All day, my mum has been acting peculiar; avoiding me whenever possible. And I can guarantee it is because of that phone call from the edgy-sounding man last night. I know she knows who it was. She lied when I asked if she knew him. It's obvious that she does. Her lie makes my lie a little easier to deal with. I didn't want to lie, but something was too weird about it, so I had to. _I had to._

It is probably around noon, and I am completely and utterly bored. Being avoided is extremely exhausting. I hate doing nothing. Eventually I pull myself from the sitting ledge next to my window and walk over to my dresser, pulling a dark green cardigan out. Slipping it on, I slide my shoes on, and head downstairs. I hear the click of the typewriter in the living room. No doubt she is writing a letter to _Eugene Fleming._

As I open the door, I am startled than none other than the one person _I_ was hoping to avoid; his hand in a fist in the air as if he was about to knock. He lets his arm fall by his side. Hurriedly, I close the door behind me and step outside, forcing him to step backwards. "I'm busy, Pete." I walk around him and hear his footsteps following closely behind.

"Wait," he says and puts a hand on my arm and spins me around to face him.

"What?" I snap, a little too bitterly. His face retorts to some kind of defeat. He doesn't answer. "Look, Peter, I really don't have time for this." I pull my arm from his grasp and walk out the gate and into the street. Seconds later he is walking by my side.

After about ten minutes of walking in silence he speaks up. "Where are you going?" he asks playfully, looking around our surroundings.

"Anywhere away from home," I say blankly. In the corner of my eye I see the confusion that etched upon his face. "My mum is avoiding me," I add so it makes more sense.

"Because of that phone call last night?" He waits for me to confirm it.

"Yes, because of the phone call last night." I confirm.

"Who was it?" _Either he actually cares or just wants to make conversation. I can't really tell at all._

"Eugene Fleming, he said his name was." His face scrunches up, the way it does when he is thinking. _So he does care._

"I don't think I recognise it."

"Well my mother certainly did." We've reached the town, and it is bustling with people. We continue walking.

"It's probably nothing," he assures.

"I hope."

Suddenly, a man on a bike crashes straight into me, sending me tumbling onto the road. My head thumps against the ground. Before a car can hit me, I feel Peter's strong arms around me, helping me up and taking me back to the pavement. The whole world is spinning around me. My head feels really fuzzy, but it doesn't hurt. I start slipping from his arms, but he pulls me back to a standing position again. My eye brows knit together as I start to feel the pain. I sense a liquid running down my forehead. Peter stares for a second at it, and then rushes me over to the steps leading into some shop. He sits me down. Then he sits next to me. "That all happened too quickly," my words slur a bit. He gives a laugh.

"Oh my goodness, I am so sorry. I did not mean to-" I look up and see the biker.

"No it's fine; it was an accident- ow!" I hiss as peter wipes at the wound on my head.

"Sorry," he says sheepishly, putting more pressure onto it.

"You're bleeding. Oh, I'm so sorry," the man with the bike continues.

"Honestly, it's okay. It doesn't even- ow!" I try and assure him. He doesn't seem convinced.

"Please, let me make it up to you?"

"Oh, no, that's not necessary, Sir. " I try and smile but my face feels very contorted. I probably have concussion.

"No, I insist. Come to my home and we'll get you cleaned up?" he suggests. I look to Peter. He gives me the 'look'.

"Um…n-okay" I try to say no but it comes out as an okay. As I stand, I fall back onto Peter who luckily was stood as well. "I'm really dizzy right now." I laugh. Nobody laughs with me. I try and walk forward but Peter's hold is tighter than I expected.

"Not so fast," he says. "Who are you? We don't even know you? You could be anyone? How can we even trust that you won't harm us-?"

"Peter!" I scald. He seems unfazed by it.

"Because I promise you I won't. This was my fault, let me make up for it?" the man suggests.

Peter's jaw locks. "She never leaves my sight," Peter warns. _Why is he acting so protective all of a sudden?_ The man replies with a nod. "Let's go then," says Peter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything associated with Narnia. {Applies to all chapters.}**

**Note; enjoy!**

"There we are." He hands me a wet flannel. I smile gratefully. Then he bustles off into the kitchen, shouting through if we want tea. I say "yes". I give Peter the 'look'. Then Peter says "yes". Peter and I sit on a sofa, and an armchair sits directly across from us. I raise my hand slowly and dab it where it is sore. _Ouch. _I grimace.

"Here, let me do that," Pete says softly. He takes the flannel gently from my hands and starts aiding to the wound. It definitely doesn't hurt as much as when I was doing it. His eyes stay focused on what he is doing, and then they fall down to mine. We just look each other. Just for a second.

Then the man walks through, with three cups of tea. He hands one to Peter, then me, then makes his way to the armchair and starts drinking his own. A stubborn silence fills the room.

"Your home is lovely," I comment.

He clears his throat. "Thank you. What did you say your name was again?"

"I didn't." I say too quickly.

"Ah, well my name is Eugene. I would very much like to-"

"Wait- _Eugene? _You aren't Eugene Fleming by any chance?"

"Why, yes. That is my name." He smiles then sips on his tea.

"I believe we spoke on the phone," I say. "Last night," I add.

"Oh." He waits a minute before talking again. "Ah, that's right; your name is Riley, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"What a lovely name," he smiles like he remembers something; a distant memory. "And your boyfriend? Does he have a name?-"

"He's not my boyfriend." And even though that is true, I feel bad for saying it. Somehow I feel _really _bad.

"It's Peter," he almost snaps. _Why is he acting so strange today?_

"Nice to meet you, Peter." He smiles crookedly. Peter does not smile back.

"How do you know my mother?" I ask, trying to avoid Peter exploding. Literally.

"Caroline? We'd see each other here and there. We're friends, you see," he lies. I know a lie when I hear one.

"No, you're not. Tell the truth," I snap.

"I am telling the truth, Riley," he insists.

"Don't say my name."

"What are you trying to propose, Miss Dawson?" _The title makes me feel sick._

I put my mug down.

"I don't know what I'm trying to propose, _Mr Fleming. _But I know that you aren't friends. Do you not think I would be the slightest bit suspicious of a phone call from a strange man asking for my mother?"

"You had all the right to be suspicious," is all he can come up with.

"How about we make a deal? Hmm?"

"Alright," he says.

"You tell me the truth."

"Fine."

"How do you know my mum?" is my first and foremost question.

"We met at university."

"Have you kept in touch since then, or was last night a one off?" He seems hesitant to answer, but he eventually does.

"Yes, we have kept in touch. More or less, at least," he answers.

"Even when she married?"

"Yes."

"Then why was she so quick in telling me she hadn't the faintest idea of who _Eugene Fleming _was?"

"I- I don't know."

"Don't lie," I retort. "Are you aware that my mother had an affair shortly after she was married?"

"No."

"Surely a friend would help a friend in a time like that don't you think?" He stays silent. "You are not friends with her," I say plainly. "What were you calling for last night?"

"It's personal."

"Why did you want to speak with my mum?"

"It's personal," he repeats.

"Well enlighten me any way you can." He looks as if he's about to tell me, but then decides against it. But then he looks like he is going to say something again.

"We- well we were- we had- it was only- I think-"

"Spit it out," Peter puts in.

"Don't tell me you're the one who- Oh please don't tell me you're him?" _I hope and hope and hope it is not him._

"Yes! There! She had an affair with me! It wasn't my fault! She never said she was married? I wouldn't have if she had told me! I promise I wouldn't have-" I don't know what bubbles within me, but within Peter it is definitely anger. He jumps from his seat, the mug smashes on the floor. He charges straight for Eugene and holds him by his collar, holding his right fist out ready to hit him. He just sits there; ready to take whatever punches Peter will throw him. "You son of a-"

"Peter!" I yell. He breathes heavily, slowly lowering his arm.

"We're leaving." He walks over and grabs my arm, dragging me out.

"Peter- no! Will you stop?" I struggle but he is much stronger than I am.

"Come on, Riley!" he shouts. Peter slams the door shut, but keeps dragging me once we are out of his garden.

"Peter! Let go!" Still he does not release his grip. "Peter!" I yank myself free, and tug and the bottom of my dress, straightening it out. He turns around, frustrated. "You are handling this like you are two years old!" I turn in my step and start walking back. He grabs me again, stopping me.

"You are not going back there." His voice is full of authority, though there is a hint that he cares too. Nevertheless, I persist in doing what is right.

"I am, and you really can't stop me," I pull myself free again and start walking again, only to be stopped _again_.

"Don't make me do this."

"We can't just leave like that, okay? I don't care who he is, just show a little respect-"

He cuts me off hastily. "Respect!?" he laughs manically. "Did you hear what he was even saying? You want me to show him some respect!? You're deluded, Riley!"

I try and pull my arm free for a third time. "_Deluded?_"

"Yes, _deluded."_

"Well if that's what you think," I say calmly. My arm slips free. I don't walk back this time. I walk the way home is. I don't even hear his footsteps behind me. That silence is music to my ears.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer; I do not own anything associated with Narnia. {Applies to all chapters.}**

**Note; enjoy!**

I get inside my home to find it too quiet. The thud of the door closing echoes throughout the slowly-darkening building. "Mum?" I speak loudly but warily. No answer. I walk slowly to the kitchen. A note sits in the darkness upon the table. I flick the light switch on the wall and walk over to it, picking it up.

_I'll be back in a few days. _

_Remember and lock the doors at night. _

_Love, Mum._

I tear my eyes from the paper. A few _days? _She has never left me in the house alone. At least never for more than a few hours. The thought of being alone scares me a whole lot. I don't mind being alone as such being alone in the middle of the night with a war over our heads. I can tell it's starting to drive people insane. Anyway I can't help but be curious to her whereabouts. She better not is taking a trip to _him. _I can accept what happened. Though if anything happens more, I will not tolerate it. Not at all. Especially when Dad will be home soon.

Taking advantage of my freedom, I switch all the lights off and head into the living room with a box of matches and a few candles to put around the room. I've always hated electrical lighting. It's too…strong. I strike one of the wooden sticks and hold it to the candle wax. The whole room illuminates once the final candle is lit. _Who needs electricity, huh? _I reach under the sofa and pull out a journal. My father's journal, to be exact. I don't even think my mother knows he kept one. I shouldn't really either, but I saw him write in it a few times then learned of its spot. I never dared touch it while he was here. When he enlisted, I read the first page and no more. Now I turn to the second page, filled with his beautiful and swirling handwriting.

He writes:

_I'll never forget today. It makes all days look like fools. Like none other days matter except this one. This day. This changed my life, their life. The world's existence has been leading up this. Now we just exist with the last breaths it has to offer. War should never have happened in the first place. Now human kind is out of control._

It's kind of like poetry I guess. He entangles and joins words together only a born writer could. It is stunning. I read on. And read on and on. And I read more. And I read on until my eyes start to close.

Soft knocks at the door wake me up from my daze. I peel my eyes open. Groaning, I scramble to my feet and stumble through the darkened hallway, opening the door sloppily.

"Not in the mood," I slur tiredly beginning to close the door but like before he puts a hand on it. "Seriously?" I challenge, though he does not reply for a moment. Before he can say anything I speak again. "Surely you have better things to do in the middle of the night than chapping on the _deluded _girl's door?" I say it plainly and flatly. I don't even care anymore. _I don't…even…care._

"I didn't mean that."

"Of course you did, Peter."

"Well you would have gone back if I hadn't said something," he points out.

"Well I wasn't exactly going to punch his face if I had," I snap, mocking his past behaviour.

He snorts. "I should have. He deserved it."

"Why do you even care about what he did? It's actually none of your concern." I stay quiet, waiting for an explanation. He brings no explanation forth. "Stay out of it," I tell him.

"I was just- I'm just trying to-"

"Well stop." I hiss. He doesn't answer. I wait a while until I speak again. "Why are you here?" I press at him wanting to go back inside the warmth of my home.

"I came to _apologise_."

"I can't wait to hear it," I fake a smile brightly. He rolls his eyes and takes in a breath before talking. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything I said, I was just acting out because- I don't know. You don't deserve- I just- I'm just very sorry," he babbles. I throw my head back and silently chuckle down breaths. After that I just close the door over.

"Goodnight, Peter."


End file.
